


just one thing I need

by stillscape



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: Betty feels a twinge of guilt as she dials. Jughead’s done so much for this Santa at the Southside Pole gathering already: enlisting Jellybean to curate appropriate playlists and removing all the naughtier carols she’d tried to sneak in, shaking down local businesses for donations, shaking down local residents to hire Southside kids to shovel snow and do other odd jobs so that they could earn money to buy gifts for their families.Really, it’s possible Jughead has done more for the Southside Pole than she has. It’s also very possible that this one last thing she’s going to ask him to do will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. But she’s out of options.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 52
Kudos: 163
Collections: 6th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, Home for the HoliDale





	just one thing I need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theheavycrown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheavycrown/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Sarah! Technically, the prompt was "There is a knock on the door and it’s someone in a Santa/Mrs. Claus outfit," but... *shrug emoji* 
> 
> Title from Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You," natch. 
> 
> Thanks to sully and skeptic!

  
  


Betty stares through her bedroom window, jaw dropped in disbelief, at the shirtless red-headed boy across the way. She does not drop her phone in surprise, or throw it through both their windows in anger—although the latter action sounds appealing. Instead she grits her teeth. 

“You’re canceling on me now?” 

He has the good sense to look at least a little ashamed. “Look, I’m really sorry, Betty. But it’s an emergency wrestling practice. I  _ have _ to go.” 

_ What the hell constitutes a wrestling emergency?  _ is what Betty wants to demand. Instead she sends him her strongest glare. “Really, Archie? We were supposed to leave in ten minutes!” 

“Really,” he says. “I’ll be there tonight at the dance, though!” 

Only a few months ago, this news would have been music to Betty’s ears. But now? Now she can’t believe she wasted two whole years of her youth waiting for Archie to notice her. Now she can’t believe she ever  _ wanted _ Archie to notice her. 

“The dance isn’t the problem, Archie. You weren’t helping me run the dance in the first place. But this—” 

“I’ll catch you later, okay? Veronica’s sending Smithers around to my house at six. You can ride with us if you want. I know Ronnie won’t mind if you join us for dinner, she can always change our reservations—” 

“No,” Betty says. “I’ll drive myself. I have to be there early.” 

She’s going to kill him. That’s the only thought running through Betty’s mind when she hangs up. 

He cringes and mouths the word  _ sorry _ once more before pulling his Riverdale High wrestling shirt overhead and disappearing from his bedroom. A few moments later, she hears the Andrews’ front door slam. 

Sighing, Betty turns to the Santa outfit laid out on her bed, complete with furry white beard and extra-plump pillows. The one she was going to walk next door so that Archie could put it on before they left. 

It was Archie’s idea to hold a Christmas gathering for the kids at the Southside community center. Archie’s idea, yes, but her implementation. 

“I can’t take another thing on,” she’d told him, weeks ago. “I can help on the day, but that’s it.” 

And yet, she’d wound up taking over all of the planning. She didn’t know how. 

No, she did. 

Archie’s indoor deep-fried turkey at Thanksgiving had prompted a visit from the fire department, a deep, disappointed sigh from both Archie’s parents, and an unspoken understanding amongst the entire population of Riverdale that Betty would now be in charge of the Southside community center’s (technically non-religious) Christmas gathering. “Hey, I should be Santa!” Archie said, and Betty procured the costume, as she procured nearly everything else necessary to turn the former boxing gym into a winter wonderland. 

Not the name, though. Jughead had come up with the name.

_ Jughead _ , she thinks now. Of course.

Betty feels a twinge of guilt as she dials. Jughead’s done so much for this Santa at the Southside Pole gathering already: enlisting Jellybean to curate appropriate playlists and removing all the naughtier carols she’d tried to sneak in, shaking down local businesses for donations, shaking down local residents to hire Southside kids to shovel snow and do other odd jobs so that they could earn money to buy gifts for their families. 

Really, it’s possible Jughead has done more for the Southside Pole than she has. It’s also very possible that this one last thing she’s going to ask him to do will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. But she’s out of options. 

Jughead doesn’t answer his phone. 

Sighing once more, Betty strips off her sweater and jeans and begins buttoning herself into the Santa suit. 

  
  


//

  
  


Once she has the whole thing on, the effect isn’t bad. The pants are baggy, sure, and the boots much too big, but other than that, she makes a fairly convincing Santa. She clomps downstairs with the pillow for her stomach under one arm and her change of clothes and makeup for the dance under the other. 

“I’m leaving,” she calls over one shoulder. From her armchair in the living room, Alice looks up over a copy of today’s  _ Riverdale Register _ . “I’ll be home after the dance. Yes, I know what my curfew is.” 

“What on earth, Elizabeth.” It isn’t phrased as a question. 

“Archie had an emergency wrestling practice.” Betty says, then shrugs. “He just told me a few minutes ago. I couldn’t find anyone else in time.” 

Alice  _ tsks _ disapprovingly. “There’s no such thing as an emergency wrestling practice,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“Can you help me load the rest of the cookies I baked yesterday into the car?” 

“There aren’t any cookies left. That beanie-wearing cad of your acquaintance absconded with them all this morning.” 

Betty pauses. She hadn’t known Jughead was stopping by. “He did?” 

“Swarmed right in like he owned the place. Had some grimy, unwashed preteen with him.” 

“ _ Mom _ . Don’t talk about his sister that way. She’s not ‘unwashed,’ she just likes working on cars—” 

“Both of them ravenous, like starving wolves. You wouldn’t believe how many pancakes the two of them put away.” 

“Where was I when Jughead was in my house eating pancakes?” Betty wonders aloud, floored a second time by the news that her mother had willingly fed the Jones siblings when Betty wasn’t here to insist she do so. Was she out for the jog that was supposed to be stress-relieving, but really only served to make her more anxious, thanks to icy roads? On her trip to drop off the River Vixens canned food drive donations at the food pantry? In her bedroom with her earbuds in, finishing up  _ Blue and Gold  _ edits? In the shower? 

(She tries not to linger on that last one, the idea of Jughead being in her house while she was naked.)

Her mother puts down the paper with an exaggerated sigh. “How am I supposed to know? You’re never home these days.” 

// 

Alice Cooper is right. These days, Betty spends only as much time in their big, empty house as is absolutely necessary. With her father and Polly gone, the house is far too  _ full _ : of her mother’s alternating rage and sorrow, her disappointment, her melancholy. Frustrating although her mother’s constant jabs at her can be, Betty welcomes them. The Alice who makes snide remarks at Jughead’s appearance and refuses to pronounce his name is the Alice she knows, the Alice  _ both  _ of them know. Just like the Betty who spreads herself a little bit too thin, the Betty who always tries to please, is the Betty they both know. 

These versions of themselves, Betty can handle. 

The first Christmas without her father and sister, Betty can handle. 

The Southside Pole and the Winter Jingle, Betty can handle. 

She just wishes the Santa beard didn’t itch so much. 

// 

Even after a month of planning and a solid week of after-school decorating, Betty isn’t sure what she thinks of the Southside High crew. Archie has befriended some of them thanks to boxing; Jughead has known some since they were, in the uncomfortable phrase Sweet Pea keeps throwing around, “snakelets.” 

They have always known exactly what to think of  _ her _ , and even though she is sure that under her wool pea coats and collared sweaters, she is more than what they think, she is unsure how best to communicate this. When she was little, her parents used to tell her that actions spoke louder than words, and although neither of them ever convincingly demonstrated as much, Betty’s tried to stick to that principle here. The Southside is very much not her turf. 

On the other hand, actually planning and hosting an event is very much not  _ their _ turf. Their tentative peace treaty has been held in place with Betty’s candy-cane print duct tape and Jughead’s intractable stubbornness. As a Southside resident but Northside student, he’s the natural arbiter of the two groups, and the most pleasant surprise of this whole to-do has been watching him willingly wear a mantle she at first assumed he would reject. It hasn’t been easy, but he’s made it work. 

“I feel like I don’t fit in with either group,” he confided, with some reluctance, over a shared plate of fries late one night at Pop’s. “To the Northside kids, I’m a Southsider. To the Southside kids, I’m a Northsider.” 

Betty remembers her feeling her brow furrow, in no small part because she and Archie were the only Northside kids even involved in this non-religious winter holiday extravaganza. “Where do you want to fit in?” she’d asked, and Jughead had shrugged and changed the subject. 

But maybe she shouldn’t be surprised that he’s tried so hard. He’s been throwing himself into the  _ Blue and Gold _ for over a year, after all, writing pieces that display increasing ambition. Some of them have become so complexly argued that she feels breathless just trying to follow his carefully woven threads. 

She looks for him as soon as she pulls into the community center parking lot, but doesn’t see his dad’s truck or the bike he sometimes rides.

She  _ does _ see Toni Topaz, who raises her eyebrows so high at the sight of Betty’s outfit (especially once she watches Betty stuff in the pillow) that they almost disappear into her red and green plaid headband. 

“Don’t,” Betty says. The other girl may currently be wearing an elf costume, but that doesn’t mean she won’t make fun of Betty’s Santa suit. 

Toni snorts. “Captain Braveheart bail on you, sweetie?” 

Toni sits at the dead center of Betty’s indecision over the Southside kids for oh-so-many reasons, not least of which is that Betty can’t get a handle on what feelings (if any) are flying between her and Jughead. They like each other, Betty can tell that much. What she can’t tell is whether they  _ like  _ like each other. Toni’s handsy with him, but she’s handsy with Sweet Pea and Fangs too, unafraid to let the fact that she’s half anyone’s size keep her from literally pushing them around when need be. Toni’s smart, too, with a quick tongue and razor-sharp wit. And, of course, she is very pretty. 

In short, she is exactly what Betty imagines Jughead’s type to be. 

(Toni. Not her.) 

Sometimes she thinks she sees them looking at each other in a certain way she doesn’t like very much, and sometimes she thinks she sees them looking at each other like she and Archie look at each other. 

“He had an emergency wrestling practice.” 

“And you believed him?” 

With a shrug, Betty says, “Does it matter why he bailed?” 

“S’pose not.” 

Betty shakes her head in either agreement or disagreement; she isn’t sure which, but the gesture causes the Santa beard to tickle her chin. “Do you know where Jug is? He didn’t answer his phone earlier.” 

“He bailed too,” Toni says with a shrug. “He dropped off a bunch of cookies at my grandpa’s trailer, and then he split. Said he had errands to run.” 

The bottom drops out of Betty’s stomach; why, she isn’t quite sure. Maybe because she doesn’t like the idea that Toni is privy to parts of Jughead’s life that she is not? But then, she tells herself, they live next door to each other. It would be exactly as ridiculous as Veronica being upset that Betty and Archie are neighbors. 

No. It has to do with Jughead letting her down for the very first time. 

Betty jams the faux fur-trimmed Santa hat down hard over her head and goes inside. Somehow, the hat is even itchier than the beard. 

// 

Not a single Southside kid, no matter how young,  _ really _ believes in Santa. Betty knows that now. Not a single one is afraid of her, or seems to take her as anything other than a teenage girl in a Santa outfit, which she supposes is good. 

On the other hand, the skin behind her ears is raw from the number of times kids have snapped the elastic on her beard. She’s also having a very hard time getting the kids to tell her what it is they want for Christmas (and/or another holiday of their choice), so that Toni can relay the wishes to Fangs and Sweet Pea, who are in charge of matching their donated gifts to recipients, to be delivered on Christmas Eve. The younger ones scoff; the older ones—“older,” in this case, meaning  _ maybe _ seven or eight—scoff and add “What are you going to do about it,  _ Santa _ ?” 

Betty can’t grit her teeth. Santa would never grit his. She smiles and promises that she’s helping the real Santa, even though she knows not a single child believes her. 

“Have you been a good girl this year?” she inquires of one who’s so young she isn’t even out of diapers yet, and the child looks Betty straight in the eye before letting loose a horrific, smelly, and (Betty is convinced) deliberate poop. 

Still, on some level, the kids must be enjoying their visits to Santa. They must be, because they keep coming. The line is still going strong. 

She also now knows that Jellybean’s favorite holiday song is any one sung by a band so obscure no one else has heard of them, with bonus points if their instrumentation includes an accordion, ukulele, or theremin. 

(Maybe she’s exaggerating. Truthfully, Betty has no idea what a theremin sounds like.) 

Ensconced with her helper elf behind a green, spangled curtain, Santa Betty survives a full ninety minutes of the curated playlist before Toni turns to her during the short break between two kids, and says simply, “Dotify?” 

“God, yes,” Betty groans. 

“Two-minute break,” Toni informs the next kid. “Santa needs some new tunes.” 

The first song Dotify throws up is Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You.” Much to Betty’s surprise, when Toni walks back through the curtain, she’s singing cheerfully along. 

“We’re closing the doors,” she says to Betty. “Line’s down to ten kids.” 

“Thank you,” Betty tells her. Despite the pillow that’s been padding her midsection, her stomach and lap are sore from so many kids climbing on and off of her. 

“Don’t thank me,” Toni replies, but she doesn’t tell Betty whom she  _ should  _ thank, not even when Betty asks. 

//

Twenty minutes later, they’re finally down to the last child. 

“Come in and see Santa,” says Toni, who then slips  _ out,  _ with a knowing wink that strikes Betty as being very unlike her. 

She’s too tired to think much into it, though. Mustering her very last bit of holiday cheer, Betty pastes her best Cooper smile back on under the beard and declares, “Welcome to the Southside Pole! What’s your...”

But she doesn’t need to ask the last child’s name, because he isn’t a child at all. He’s her age. 

“Hi, Santa,” says Jughead, as the curtain swishes shut behind him. “Funny, I thought you’d be taller and have more impressive biceps.” 

Her first instinct is to tell Jughead to cut the crap, but just before the words leave her mouth, she realizes he seems unusually nervous. 

“Well,” she offers, “I guess I’ve disappointed all of us at one time or another.” 

“I’m not disappointed.” He takes a few steps closer. 

“Have you—” She feels ridiculous saying the line. She feels ridiculous that Jughead is here, acting like they aren’t both in on the joke, or whatever the situation is. “Have you been a good boy this year?” 

Jughead shrugs. “I’ve tried. Can’t say I’ve always succeeded.” He frowns, staring at the pillow padding Betty’s midsection. Thrill mingles with horror; Betty can’t divine his exact thoughts, but she is certain they have something to do with the complicated matter of her lap and whether he ought to sit in it. 

Suddenly, she’s not in the mood to put up with any more teasing, no matter how good-natured. Not after Jughead completely bailed on her this afternoon. She stands up, prepared to rip off the beard. 

“Jug—” 

“No,” he says, nervous but firm. “I mean—I came to tell you what I want for Christmas. Can I at least do that?” 

“ _ May  _ you at least do that.” Betty folds her arms over her chest. She remains standing. “What do you want for Christmas, little boy?” 

Jughead looks around at the little Santa throne room, then begins stalking its perimeter. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” 

_ The Wizard of Oz _ is not a Christmas movie. It’s a Thanksgiving movie. Everyone knows that. Betty’s foot taps impatiently inside its oversized Santa boot. 

“I was hoping for a little Christmas courage,” Jughead continues, plopping into the ancient, bedraggled armchair they’d dragged from his dad’s living room and covered with a fleece throw blanket. He leans forward, propping elbows on knees, and begins twisting the rings on his left hand with the fingers of his right. 

“You want a medal?” 

“No. I want…” Jughead looks up at her, then gets to his feet. Suddenly, he seems to be all limbs and awkward angles, elbows poking sharply at the sleeves of his sherpa jacket. “There’s a school dance tonight. I don’t  _ do _ dances. But what I want for Christmas is the courage to ask a girl to go with me.” 

“Jughead.” Betty stops there for a moment, needing to collect her breath. “What girl?” 

“Her name’s Betty Cooper,” he says, and then adds wryly, “You know her, I’m sure. She ought to be right at the top of your ‘nice’ list.” 

The Santa suit is warm anyway, but Betty flushes even hotter and brighter for a moment inside it, temporarily grateful that most of her face is covered. 

“If it helps,” he adds, “you can tell her the reason I bailed on this event was so I could rustle up a semi-respectable suit to wear. If she says yes.” 

“Well, Jughead,” she says, heart hammering in her ears, “it is still a few days before Christmas. But I think this is one wish Santa won’t have any trouble at all granting you.” 

For a long moment, they stand several feet apart, smiling shyly at each other. Then something seems to burst inside Betty, flooding her insides with hot chocolate and happiness. She strides across the floor as quickly as the Santa suit will allow, throws her arms around Jughead’s neck, and plants a kiss on his cheek. 

It’s not the most satisfactory of hugs. The pillow in her shirt sees to that. 

“Santa,” Jughead says, letting go of her with one hand to scratch his cheek where the beard met his skin. “Any idea where I might find Betty?” 

Betty nods. “I’ll get her for you. Just give me fifteen minutes.” 

//

Thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds later, Betty applies one last flick of cranberry-red lipstick, blots the excess, and steps back to evaluate herself. The mirror in the women’s room is grimy and cracked, but not so much that she can’t appreciate the dress she’d chosen weeks ago: silver and gold, flared at the waist, with a distinct 1950s vibe that pairs well with her new holly-green cashmere cardigan. The cardigan drapes just so under the dress’s focal point, a big brocade bow that sits just under her collarbones and frames them rather nicely, if she does say so herself. The sprig of holly she’s tucked into her hair is the final touch. 

She nods once at her reflection, caps the lipstick, and heads into the main hall to find that Jughead has transformed himself, too. No longer is he cozy and familiar in rumpled jeans and a cable-knit sweater, but instead long and lean in a dark blue suit and matching tie. The contrast to his usual look is so dramatic that her heart leaps into her throat. She knew Jughead was cute; she didn’t realize, somehow, that he was quite this handsome. 

“Wow,” she says. 

His eyes light up when he sees her. 

He does not allow her to tuck a matching sprig of holly into the brim of his hat. She settles for the buttonhole instead. 

// 

Jughead’s dad has the truck for the night, and so Betty drives them to Riverdale High, keenly aware of the hand Jughead keeps draped lightly on his left leg. It twitches softly every so often, as if he’s having to consciously keep the hand from drifting over to her side of the car. 

She parks near the front entrance and turns to Jughead as they both unbuckle their seatbelts. “You know, the dance doesn’t start for another two hours,” she says. “I just have to be here early to finish the setup.” 

“I know.” 

“You don’t have to stay and help,” she adds. 

Jughead gives her such a strong  _ you’ve got to be kidding me  _ look that she actually giggles. 

“Of course I’m going to stay and help,” he says, sounding almost annoyed. 

“Thank you, Jughead.” 

He takes her hand in his then, lacing their fingers together so firmly that she has a sudden, unexpected understanding: Jughead has wanted this for even longer than she has. 

“I didn’t ask earlier,” he says. “What do  _ you  _ want for Christmas, Betty?” 

“I didn’t write Santa a letter this year,” she says. There are so many wishes she could have put into one: for her father and Polly to return. For her mother to find happiness. For her real SAT scores to match the ones on her practice tests. For a new pair of suede boots—not that she really  _ needs _ those, but a girl can never have too many pairs of shoes. 

But right at this moment, she feels as though she has everything she could possibly want. 

“If I had,” she says, squeezing Jughead’s hand, “I would have wished for this. For you.” 

He regards her for a long moment, nearly frowning. Then he swoops across the car, sliding a cold hand to the back of her neck, and pulls her in for a slow, deep kiss. 

Though she’s long since ceased to believe in Santa herself, Betty sends a silent thank-you up to the North Pole. 

// 

Holding hands makes carrying the last of the decorations in from her car that much more difficult. Betty doesn’t care. The only thing they couldn’t manage was the mistletoe, and she no longer feels as though mistletoe is necessary. 

They’re almost to the gym when from behind them comes the unmistakable clack of Louboutins on a linoleum floor. Together, they turn to see Veronica storming down the hallway, already dressed for the dance, a garment bag slung over one arm. 

“Hello, Betty,” she says, jaw set. “Hello, Jughead. I see you’ve finally come to your senses.” 

“Veronica, what—”

“Archibald Andrews!” Veronica calls, interrupting Betty. “You’d better be ready to leave that gym right this minute. Did you forget we have dinner reservations before the dance?” 

They’re close enough now that Betty can make out squeaks, and grunts, and a fair amount of testosterone-fueled shouting. 

“Oh,  _ no _ ,” she says, and takes off down the hall, dragging Jughead with her. All the decorating work she’d done the day before—if it’s destroyed now, and because— 

She takes a deep breath. 

“And you, Daddy,” Veronica continues. “Did you really think you could keep Archie from taking me to the dance so easily?” She throws her tiny shoulders back. “There’s  _ no such thing as an emergency wrestling practice!”  _

//

(fin) 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! Comments are always appreciated, if you're inclined to leave them ❤️


End file.
